believe
by oswins
Summary: You meet in a church in Cornwall and suddenly she's lying in your arms, you can smell the sea in her hair and you're two unbelievers who made each other believe —Ali, James and beginning to believe /for Ella.


_**a/n **- ____for ella (InkTeardrops) the flawless human being who created this beautiful pairing. i love you to the moon and back. i hope this lived up to your expectations, darling! _

___[__a massive thanks to cassie (our dancing days) for beta-ing this for me – she's __absolutely perfect and made this 101% better!]_

* * *

**_believe  
_**_i will one day shine with you  
_—all in white, the vaccines

* * *

You meet her in Cornwall; the place of myth and legend – the home of King Arthur and Merlin, the greatest wizards to ever live. You meet her in the land where fairies dance and magic lies deep in ancient stones. You meet her where the sea makes love to the land and seagulls circle in slate-like skies. You meet her where the end meets the beginning and worlds turn backwards

You meet her in the land of ancient magic, the place where anything can happen.

.

You first see her in Port Leven, a tiny fishing harbour just outside Penzance. She sits on the edge of the sea wall, her legs dangling over the edge, sandaled heels banging a constant tattoo against the grainy side.

_dum dum. dum dum._

She looks so small, so breakable as the high tide crashes against the wall, sending flurries of silvery sea foam against her ankles. You think how easy it would be for her to fall, disappearing into the icy depths forever.

Just another girl who stood too close to the edge.

And the last person to see her – a boy with hair so dark it's almost black, and emerald eyes, lurking in the shadows of a pastry shop.

Just watching.

_(Always watching.)_

.

When she leaves, you follow her; you don't know why, you just do. There's something about this girl with the blonde hair, matted by the wind and the salty spray and the leap in her step as she hurtles along the costal path that sends a great surge through your stomach.

It's a feeling that takes a moment to hit you:

Freedom.

_(You're free.)_

Just like the seagulls and the dolphins and every fish in the sea.

_(Are you finally free?)_

.

Of all the places you expect her to go, the little church hovering there (- dangling, darling, _close to drowning-) _is one of the last. It hangs onto the edge of the crumbling cliff like a madman grasps at the last shreds of his sanity.

You wonder if that's what you're becoming – a madman, so close to tipping over the edge. Just like the church.

You eye it curiously; you've never really believed in God – growing up in the Potter family always seems to ensue you're constantly surrounding by at least two mundane deities. And you're in no mind to worship any others.

You've never really believed in religion either; it's always been something which has lurked in the edge of your life. You've had a suicidal sister, divorced parents and a brother who won't admit he's in love with a Malfoy to deal with. You have enough people to blame your problems on.

_(But now you don't.)_

_(You used to have.)_

_(Maybe once.)_

But they're gone now.

They disappeared when you packed your bags and left a note scrawled in red ink on the kitchen table and ran away.

_(At least, that's what you try and tell yourself.)_

So you decide the follow the girl with the blonde hair and the leap in her step into the church listing on the edge between two worlds.

After all, you think, you've dealt with worse.

.

Except you haven't.

Because she's crying.

And for some reason (_whatever could it be) _you'd never thought – not for a second – that anyone with such a bounce and a passion in her steps could cry.

Except she is and you don't know what to do.

_(Because you've never been good with feelings, dear.)_

.

In the end, she's the one who speaks first. She turns around and looks at you for a long moment with cold, dead eyes, her cheeks stained with tears. Her chin trembles and you want to run. You want to get away from the desperately – tragically – beautiful girl who seems as every bit cracked and broken as the life you've escaped from, but you can't.

_(Why you thought you could escape from anything at all, _well_.)_

"Do you believe in God?" she asks you and suddenly the tower of glass you've erected – stone by stone, shard by shard – to stop you from feeling, from believing, from _loving_, slowly begins to crack.

_(It starts off small but tears can grow, can't they?)_

_(Waterfalls were streams, once.)_

.

It takes you a long time until you finally answer.

"No."

The corner of her lip lifts in a slightly mocking smile and you think she's going to laugh at you – reprimand you even - but then the smile fades.

"Me neither," she tells you.

_(She's American)_

_(Maybe that explains the way she can smile through the tears and cry when she's laughing.)_

.

You don't know her name. Who she is, or where she comes from. You don't know her past, her present or her future. All you know is that she's every bit as broken as you are. So in the end you slide into the pew next to her, wrap your arms around her, and hold her as she sobs.

_(They say there's no place for regrets in this world.)_

_(You think they're lying.)_

.

When she stops crying, you take her to the muggle pub in the village. You sit at the bar and order her a pint of the house's finest. You watch as she drinks in large, desperate gulps and finally you ask her name.

"Ali," she tells you with a smile. "Alison DiLaurentis."

She looks at you expectantly and for a second you think of lying but then you look at Ali DiLaurentis. You see a wound extending across her chest, the cause unknown and you think that maybe – just maybe – you can sew her back together, if you try.

So you tell her the truth.

"James Sirius Potter."

.

You talk until the pub closes; about everything and nothing and everything in between, and you find yourself baring your soul to this American girl you've known for just a few hours.

You tell her about Albus and Scorpius – about their secret relationship of sex, drugs and intricate patterns drawn onto their wrist with sterling knives and screams of lust, longing and pain.

You tell her about Lily – about the bang you heard one morning, a locked door, a pool of blood and a letter addressed to James in silver ink. You tell her about your parents – the Boy Who Lived and his redheaded wife, who locked themselves in separate room and shouted through the thin walls until even James' muggle music wasn't enough to shut them out.

And in return she tells you about her life; about Spencer, Aria, Hanna and Emily. About a little town in North East America which is so tightly shrouded in secrets one can barely step out of their front door without returning as the highlight of gossip the next day. She tells you about a murder, a twin sister, false allegations. She tells you about running. About running and escaping.

_(and hiding and lying and fighting)_

And you tell her that is exactly what you're doing too.

.

You return to your flat in a mess of sweat, alcohol and desire. You fuck on your sofa and make love in your bed as you trail kisses down her back. She tastes of sea salt and rose water and you love it.

You lie in your bed and watch the sun rise from behind a churning grey sky and you think tomorrow – today – could be better than yesterday.

.

Days pass in a blur of beaches, wind and lust. For the first time in both of their lives they can be their selves – James Potter and Ali DiLaurentis – two lost souls, wondering the earth in a beautiful haven called Cornwall.

_(But you don't get havens here on earth.)_

You walk along the sandy dunes and kiss in caves, walking back home with your skin slick with sea water and sweat. You lie in your bed and you whisper the worlds of old Cornish love ballads into her ear. She smiles and tells you, _you're so goddamned English._

You just smile and tell her she's so goddamned beautiful and she laughs and you think that life has never been more perfect.

.

Slowly you begin to feel yourself sinking in the sticky web called love; when she's not by your side, you find yourself beginning to yearn desperately for the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair and the blue of her eyes. You begin to try and unravel the knots of secrets that is Ali.

On the day she tells you about Ian, something fierce and red hot boils up inside you — jealousy. It hurts you to believe that there has ever been any but you who's she has loved so unconditionally. You tell her that you don't care; you agree with her when she tells you he's long gone.

_(From her mind, yes, but from her heart?)_

.

But that doesn't stop you from sneaking out of the house at midnight. She didn't do any more than kiss you goodnight and your body longs for more. You walk down to the beach and stand in the surf, the waves wetting the end of your toes.

The moon is full, looming over the water like a crystal ball.

_(You wish you can see the future — your future — her future. Just anything but the past.)_

You don't realise you're crying until you feel a cold hand on your cheek, wiping away the icy tears. You didn't hear her creep up behind you. You stiffen as she wraps her arms around your waist, burying her head against your shoulder.

"Why are you out here?" she asks.

"I couldn't sleep."

She sighs and her breath tickles your neck.

_(silence)_

"I'm sorry, James," she murmurs.

"It's not your fault." You let out a breath. "I was an idiot."

"Nothing new in that," Ali teases gently.

You smile softly at the sea, twisting her around so you can wrap your arms around her too.

"I love you, Ali," you tell her.

There's a pause and you almost miss her reply under the never ending roar of the ocean.

_I love you too._

_(forever)_

.

One day as you sit on a tartan rug at the tip of Lands End and it seems like the whole world is at your finger tips, she lies beside you, her head in your lap and makes daisy chains from the pretty white flowers scattered across the grass.

You wonder if there is a God, watching the pair of you. Perhaps he's taking pity on you; the broken boy and the lost girl. Perhaps he thinks you've suffered enough crap for a lifetime.

_(perhaps)_

_(but maybe not)_

.

She asks you if you believe in God once more on your birthday.

You sit on the flat rock which has become your _place. _You sit, and you watch the unusually blue November sea and she asks you, three words and a voice so little you hardly hear it.

For a moment her voice surprises you more than her words because Ali is many things — brash, selfish, loving, rude, energetic, beautiful — but never little.

Ali's a giant — the great blue whale of this world — and to see her shrunk to the size of a shrimp scares you more than you know.

But you answer all the same. And the answer is what it was six months ago in a church teetering on the edge of something ancient.

"Do you believe in anything?" she asks.

You pause before you answer.

"Us," you reply. "I believe in us."

And just for a moment, you swear you see her smile.

_(or maybe you just hear it)_

.

Days turn into months and slowly the blustery spring turns into an icy summer. It rains. It rains every day for a week and you watch her sink back into the withered girl you found crying in the back of a church.

She sits by the window of your cottage and watches the sea; she watches the churning waves and the crashing breaks and you finally realize something.

Ali is the sea.

She can't stay put; she's an endless crescendo of waves and tides and colours. She's the grey of the sea in a storm and at the same time the calm blue waters of a summer's day. She's an endless mess of colour and sound and smells; the feel of sand under your toes, the screech of a gull overhead, the taste of salt as you leave kisses in a scorching trail down her neck.

She should be a calm ritenuto, a diminuendo - not an allegro, fast-paced and running. But that's not who she is.

She's restless and moves with the pull of the moon and the tides.

She's longing for a bitchy little town called Rosewood, and no matter how heart you try, James, it's always going to pull her back.

.

Ali says goodbye in the church where you met - still hanging onto the cliff by its fingertips. She makes an occasion out of it and you can't help but hate her for it. She pulls you, laughing through the icy August rain as you dance through fields of wet, purple heather. You want to cry, to fall to the ground and beg her to stay but you don't.

Instead, you laugh.

You laugh and twirl her round in circles until you're both dizzy. You fall to the ground and kiss her, despite the rain, the cold and the wet. You kiss her until you're breathless and you lie, entwined together.

Because that's what you and Ali do.

You don't let each other see the pain.

.

You found her crying in the church and she leaves you crying in the very same pew. The silent organ echoes your heart; you feel nothing. There's empty patch of sea where you two used to be — the fishes are gone and the seagulls cry the lament of lovers.

When she was with you, you were free.

_(Like the seagulls and the dolphins and every fish in the sea.)_

Your past was a history book and your future was up for any publication. Your present was a love poem carved into the wall of a church.

But now the glass tower which had almost fallen apart is rebuilding itself.

_(Brick by brick, shard by shard.)_

.

You remember how she ended it; the words, the desperate pleads and the rise and fall of her voice. You remember how she said it was her, not you.

_(Never you, never James.)_

You try and fall in love again. You meet girls. You go to parties. You dance. You sing. You're happy.

_(You try to believe you're happy)_

You visit Albus hospital.

_(He overdosed – he never found his escape – not like-)_

_(Not like you_)

He doesn't recognize you but you still sit by his bed and hold his hand and mumble that everything is going to be okay.

_(And maybe you tell him about Ali and Cornwall; about moonlight trysts and stormy seas. About stolen kisses and falling in love. You tell him everything's going to be fine.)_

_(Is it?)_

You lay flowers on your sister's grave.

_(A sombre cemetery in the grey London suburbs.)_

You put lilies there. Snow white lilies stained with red.

_(She hated lilies anyway and it's like a private joke between you and the headstone.)_

_(It doesn't laugh.)_

But you never go back to Cornwall.

.

You're living in Glastonbury three years later when the newspaper is shoved through your door. It's in a brown package, covered in a crude mess of different stamps. Your name and old address from Cornwall are scribbled on the front with a redirect from the landlord.

You don't want to open it — you haven't received any packages since you ran away from home, but in the end your curiosity out does you.

You rip it open and a newspaper falls out. It's yellow and weathered and you read it's called the Rosewood Times.

The date reads three months previously.

Your hands are cold as you unfurl it, and the static picture on the front leaps out at you.

It's her. But it's not the same Ali you knew.

Her eyes are dead and cold, not matching the perfectly porcelain smile at all. Her hair is curled, brushed around one shoulder, the other shoulder bare — like the shoulder of a china doll.

Next your eyes wonder to the headline and your heart stops. Bile rises up in your throat and your eyes haze over.

**_ALISON DILAURENTIS - ROSEWOOD PICTURE GIRL, RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MURDER OF 8 PEOPLE DIED IN FIRE EARLIER THIS MORNING._**

And tucked into the top of the paper is a note scrawled on the back of an old cigarette box - just two words - just two words - two words - two -

_Goodbye. -A_

_._

It takes you a while to read the report properly, and when you do, you feel something new – something completely different from when she left you. You feel a turmoil of emotions burning up inside.

Rage. Fear. Sadness. Loneliness.

_(And yet, somehow, you understand, just a little.)_

They burn inside you until suddenly it's just like she left you for the first time.

You feel nothing.

_(Except this time she's not coming back.)_

.

One day you go back to Cornwall.

It's seven years on and you think you'll be able to face it.

You go to the church where you first met and you sit that very same pew. And you pray.

Except you don't pray to God.

You pray to the one think you've ever believed in.

You pray to her.

You fall to your knees and you cry; good, honest, salty tears that fall to the flagstones. Your shoulders shake. The barren crucifix above the alter seems to glower down at you and you sob until your eyes are dry.

And then you notice the silhouette standing in the shadows.

A girl – a woman – with blonde hair and a smile which you'll never understand.

_(But now you don't care, do you, James?)_

.

She tells you that she's back for good this time – that she can never go back to America again. She faked her death once more, clearing the names of the others who had been accused of her murder. She tells you that you changed her – that you made her see the right way – that she couldn't live with the burden of their lives upon her shoulder too.

.

It takes you a while to trust her again; you're constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting for her to run away again. But she doesn't. You walk along moonlit beaches and you dance through fields of dewy heather.

And then one night, as you lie in her bed watching the stars shine over the endless ocean you feel in again;

You feel freedom.

_(Just like the seagulls and the dolphins and every fish in the sea.)_

.

_**fin.**_


End file.
